The Letter
by razorblade-liberation
Summary: Draco receives a letter from a late Harry Potter following a funeral. After reading, will Draco be able to live with his guilt? I'm not too good at these summary-things. Slash warning, HaD pairing-ish. R&R!


Disclaimer: Y'all know I don't own Harry or Draco or anyone, for that matter. So please don't sue me. Because in all reality, all you could sue me for is a bowl of Ramen and a Diet Coke.  
  
Summary: Harry dies (don't worry, that wasn't a spoiler or anything. Fan- FICTION). Draco and his wife-to-be are given a letter at the funeral. After reading it, will Draco be able to live with himself or his fiancée? mild slash  
  
Authorette's Note: This is what happens when I am in one of my depressed moods in front of a computer. With that, let the fiction begin.  
  
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I stood before the cherry coffin in complete silence, Hermione by my side. The priest gave the eulogy, and I wondered, asked myself why. He seemed so strong. Harry, the only man I had ever loved, was dead. He had killed himself. Why he did it, I never thought I would know. He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named had been demolished months before Harry's death, and Harry had seemed completely thrilled. With the Dark Lord's demise, everyone he or his Death Eaters had killed or injured was restored back to life and sanity. Sirius was back. Lily and James were back. It was the happiest time of Harry's life. Or so we all thought.  
  
As it seemed, Harry had not been happy. But why? What had driven Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, My Boy Who Lived, to suicide? He had it all: friends, hundreds of fans, a family, and all the money he could ever hope for. He had everything I always wanted. I looked around. Standing around me was everyone. It seemed that all of London had shown up for the boy's funeral. Two people I noticed in particular were Lily and James. My heart sank for them. They had just gotten to know their son, and now he was dead. He was in the cherry coffin they stood beside. The rain that poured from the sky blurred my vision of them. Or was it the tears that were now streaming down my cheeks?  
  
"Draco," Hermione whispered, "are you okay?"  
  
"No," I answered truthfully.  
  
By the end of the priest's eulogy, everyone was in tears. James held Lily close to him as she broke down in his arms. Sirius stood strong, but there was a strangely glazed look in his eyes, like there had been right after his time in Azkaban. Ron held his own red-haired Weasley in his arms, standing next to his wife, Padma Patil. Neville stood near his again-sane parents, and they were all crying. The party-if it could be called that- began to leave, but Ron and Padma approached Hermione and myself.  
  
"Congratulations, Draco," Ron said, barely above a whisper. "I hear you two are engaged."  
  
"Yes," sighed Hermione, "but that's not important. "We should be focusing on Harry right now."  
  
"Of-of course," Ron said quietly. "Draco, before I forget, there's something for you at the apartment. A letter Harry wrote for you right before. You may want to, um, come and pick it up. I, uh, haven't read it. Your name's on it, not mine."  
  
Ron didn't seem quite there. He had a far-off look in his eyes that suggested he was on drugs of some sort. He couldn't seem to bring himself to look in my direction. And I didn't know why.  
  
"Ron, what's wrong?" I asked, and as soon as I did so, I regretted it.  
  
"What do you think is wrong, Malfoy?!" Ron nearly shouted. "My best friend is dead-killed himself, no less-and you were the only bloody person he wrote a letter to! There was no 'I'm sorry, Ron' letter! Oh, no! You were the epitome of his world! The last few years of his life were all about what you thought. He couldn't even take a piss without wondering 'What would Draco think?'. Couldn't you have... I don't know... talked to him a little more?"  
  
I was stunned.  
  
"I had no idea I was such an influence on his life, Ron," I said truthfully.  
  
Harry had come out of the closet three years before and confessed his love to me. I, being the rebellious Malfoy that I was back then, decided to experiment. I had always had those sorts of thoughts about members of the same sex, I just never... acted on them. Finally, with Harry, I snapped. We were together for two years before I had decided that I wanted more to be with women. I asked Hermione to marry me almost a year after the break-up, and now that I had thought about it, a week or so before Harry's suicide... was I the reason he killed himself? No, no I couldn't be. Harry valued his life more than to let something silly like that ruin it.  
  
"When do you want me to come pick up this letter?" I asked.  
  
"Now."  
  
The drive to Ron and Harry's old apartment was brutal. Hermione and I just sat there, holding hands, knowing exactly what was in the letter. He would tell me it was my fault. He would tell me that he hated me. He would say something about wishing I was the one who had died. He would say something about Hermione. I was already beginning to hate myself.  
  
We pulled into Harry's old driveway, and saw Harry's old car. He never really drove it... just back and forth to Muggle events he often went to with Mr. And Mrs. Weasley. I walked into the apartment and felt a rush of sadness. He was still here, somehow. I felt Harry's presence. I felt his hate towards me. Or was that just Ron, glaring at me? I looked in Ron's direction. He was, in fact, glaring my way.  
  
"Well," he said, "it's in his room. Just go get it, and get out of my house."  
  
I entered Harry's old room, and saw the area roped off by the Ministry. That was where it happened. That was where he slit his wrists. I couldn't bring myself to look at the bloodstain on the floor. I had already seen it in the Daily Prophet one too many times. On Harry's bedpost, on the bed we shared for two years, was a parchment envelope, addressed to me. I picked it up, pocketed it, and left the house. I didn't say good-bye to Ron.  
  
I didn't read it the car. I didn't want Hermione to know what the letter contained. We drove home in complete silence, holding hands, not looking at each other. She still had tears in her eyes over the funeral. When we got home to the manor my parents had left me, we went our separate ways in the house. Hermione went to the kitchen to make our dinner, while I walked directly to my study, to read the letter. Even before I'd sat down at my desk, I began to tear open the parchment envelope. I sat in my swivel- chair and read:  
  
Dearest Draco,  
I hate you. The faint of heart would discontinue reading after that sentence. I know you won't. You're stronger than that, Draco. That's why I love you. Yes, Draconis Lucius Malfoy, I love you. You should know that by now. After two years of us being together, you betrayed me! You went back to being with women. Don't get me wrong, Hermione is one of my best friends, but why would you do that to me? You probably think I'm going to say something like 'I wish you had killed yourself instead.' I don't. I'm actually pretty confident in my decision right now. Listen to me, I can sit here and write about my own suicide! I'm one messed up sonovabitch, aren't I? I just hope like hell you see now what you've done to me. I hope you cry all the tears I did. I heard this quote once, and it made me think of you: 'I wish I had saved all the tears you ever made me cry, so I could fucking drown you in them'. Like it? I sure did. I would have, too. You know what else I hope? I hope it rains on the day of my funeral. I hope it rains tears. Will you do me a favor, though, Draco? Will you apologize to my parents and Sirius and Ron and everybody for me? I never got the chance. I knew that if I were to write too many letters like this one, I would never have the nerve to do it. But I have to go now. Ron and Padma are going to be home any time. I love you Draco, yet I hate everything you are.  
Love Forever,  
Your Boy Who Lived.  
  
Tears soaked my eyes as I cried and cried. I had come to my own decision. I opened my drawer. Inside I found perfect parchment and ink. And underneath everything, was my letter-opener; my very own razorblade. I sat the razorblade next to the parchment and ink. And there, I began to write my very own letter.  
  
Authorette's Note: Well? Read and Review please! 


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